


First Line of a Design

by livbartlet



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Family, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5707669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livbartlet/pseuds/livbartlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pre-Hunger Games look at Cinna, his family, and motivations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Line of a Design

The loud bang of pots & pans drowned out the sounds of revelry and even the din of the video screen in the main room. Cinna entered the stylish loft carefully, stepping only on the plush faux-fur rugs to avoid adding any noise. He stepped wrong and the hardwood floors creaked. His oldest son looked up from his toys. Wide eyes conveyed fears. His child was growing up — old enough to recognize when the world shifted towards the unpredictable. Cinna smiled, nodded, and pointed to the kitchen. His wiser-than-four-years son returned to his play.

The smell of lightly fried catfish and freshly squeezed lemons saturated the air. Cinna’s stomach rumbled in response. The pot banging and unpredictability were downsides to this time of year but the food was incredible.

Parve had added slammed cupboards to the rhythm repertoire by the time Cinna reached the industrial kitchen. Parve’s silky brown hair swayed with each jerky movement. That hair had caught Cinna’s attention in a crowded gallery where Parve had been hired as caterer. As Parve had bowed to distribute foods, his hair had poured down like molten chocolate.

Parve’s thoughts were not on love stories. The cacophony heralded the beginning of each and every Hungry Games. Cinna reminded his stomach that his purpose was to comfort Parve not steal a taste of the plum-infused cream furiously spread over cooling puffed pastry. He reached out to place a hand on Parve’s shoulder but pulled it back when Parve unexpectedly grabbed a knife to begin hacking at a hard-shelled seed Cinna didn’t recognize.

Parve’s cursing intermingled with scathing commentary on the Games broadcast on large screens outside the floor-to-ceiling glass. “Meet the lovely tribute from District 10. She has lovely bone structure, doesn’t she?! It’ll look amazing draped over a rock, splayed by another child – we could find out if those bones are really lovely or if it’s just a trick of the skin. You know, we may all want our bones sculpted after this lovely tribute.”

After his last sentence, the knife strokes changed from purposeful to haphazard as Parve poured his rage over the Games into every slice. The strokes began to dent the wood. Cinna grabbed Parve’s wrist mid-air. “Hey, we like our kitchen. Let’s leave it intact.”

“Make it stop. Make it all stop.”

Cinna didn’t pretend not to understand the plea. Cinna watched pain flash between the moments of pulsing animosity. “I can’t. I can’t stop it. I can just be here for you.”

Every other year, that had been enough. But this year, the phrase infuriated Parve. “Not enough. For those children about to die, _be here for you_ is not enough.”  
Parve returned to his massacre of the savory nut. Once pulverized, the knife sought a new victim in countless fruits and vegetables scattered across the countertop. “You haven’t met them, Cinna. You don’t know who they are.”

Parve had grown up in the home of a Panem official. While Cinna had spent his childhood with artist parents discussing the philosophy & politics of the day, Parve had paraded around Panem seeing first-hand what those philosophies and politics had wrought — parents distraught over a dead tribute, starving children at a reaping, siblings refusing to meet each other’s gaze as one made the terrifying journey to the platform. The all-too-real experience of the reaping had been carved into Parve’s beautiful soul.

Cinna sighed audibly this time. “What do you want me to do? Protest? Take a petition to President Snow?”

“I want you to help them. to follow through on your own idea. Help the least among them survive.”

“Parve — ” Cinna interjected sufficient warning into his tone. “Parve — I had that idea while half-drunk on wine and magnanimity.”

“I know. Still a good idea.” Parve met Cinna’s eyes. He dared him to back away from his exertions made during a dinner party last year.

“Yeah, I know,” Cinna conceded. Cinna leaned back against the counter. Parve offered him a bite of plum pastry. Cinna bit at his fingers with a grin.  
Cinna hoped the larger issues of the Games could be tabled for a moment. “Joshan is getting older. He’s upset today. I saw him as I came in the door.”

Parve stiffened at the implied criticism. “Okay. I’ll keep this under control a little.” There was a slight pause before the next sentence. “I can even wait for a while. Until the right time for intervention.”

Cinna exhaled audibly. He wanted time. Stylists disappeared or met with accidents for helping the wrong district succeed. “How much time?”

Parve smiled. “Less than you want but as much as I can give. After all, you may not be as good as you think. You may live a long, productive life as a Games stylist.”

Cinna fought feelings of foreboding. For once in his life, he hoped he was not as good as he liked to think he was. He kissed the back of his lover’s neck and begged a bite of catfish before going to answer Rory’s cry for attention in the next room.


End file.
